“For more weeks, for more months than I can count. Scarcely since—when was it?—the end of January, that night of Tishy’s dinner.”
“Yes, that awful night.”
“Awful, you call it?”
“Awful.”
“Well, the time without you,” Mrs. Brook returned, “has been so bad that I’m afraid I’ve lost the impression of anything before.” Then she offered the tea to his choice. “WILL you have it upstairs?”
He received the cup. “Yes, and here too.” After which he said nothing again till, first pouring in milk to cool it, he had drunk his tea down. “That’s not literally true, you know. I HAVE been in.”
“Yes, but always with other people—you managed it somehow; the wrong ones. It hasn’t counted.”
“Ah in one way and another I think everything counts. And you forget I’ve dined.”
“Oh—for once!”
“The once you asked me. So don’t spoil the beauty of your own behaviour by mistimed reflexions. You’ve been, as usual, superior.”